


skin and shell

by velvet_shiver



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, In Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvet_shiver/pseuds/velvet_shiver
Summary: “If ‘crazy’ doesn’t exist, then why are you mad at me for saying it about myself?” Frank jabs.“Because I don’t think you see it the way I do, honey,” Gerard points out. “I think you do think crazy exists, and I think you think it’s bad. I think you’re using the word to talk against yourself.”–––––gerard comes home from a conference to find frank's had an OCD episode. sympathy, jokes, love, a little bit of angst. a hurt/comfort one shot.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	skin and shell

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hold me Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202538) by [throwupsparkles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwupsparkles/pseuds/throwupsparkles). 



> this work was loosely inspired by throwupsparkles' fic, Hold Me Down.  
> CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNING: contamination anxiety, OCD behaviors/symptoms, and the wounds/thoughts that go along with them.

“It fucking hurts, Gee,” Frank says. 

“I know, I know,” Gerard murmurs, rubbing lotion into the cracks on Frank’s hands. It fills the valleys of his skin, white rivers between plaques of red and pink. Frank’s knuckles are rough scabs under Gerard’s fingers. He sighs.

Frank shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gerard says. 

Frank pouts. His eyes are threatening to well up again, and Gerard feels sick to his stomach. He’s not sure if it’s because he hates to see Frank this way, or if it’s because the bathroom air is a noxious, dizzying, cell-killing cocktail of bleach and rubbing alcohol, but either way, he needs to open a window. He rubs the excess lotion into his hands and gets up, stepping over the lip of the tub Frank is sat against to open the small window in the shower wall.

“Gee, don’t touch the —”

“I know. We just need some fresh air in here, honey,” Gerard says, maneuvering around the shampoo and conditioner bottles on the window box. He knows it’s nothing personal; sometimes it just “gets bad” like this, and whenever it does, it’s alright for Gerard to touch Frank’s skin, but not his belongings. Gerard doesn’t ask why. He knows once Frank relaxes, the boundaries will, too.

He cranks the window open, watching the once blurry skyline become sharp as the glass cranks upwards and outwards. Buildings stretch up towards the purple night, their illuminated windows where the stars should be. Gerard sees the glow of his office building, and before the anger can overcome him, a cold breeze softens the heat rising in his head. Gerard loosens the tie around his collar, and lets the air cool his suffocated skin.

“Cold,” Frank says from below.

“I know,” Gerard laughs, glancing over his shoulder. Frank’s looking back at him. His neck tattoos are distorted by the turn of his head, and the skin around his eyes is red and puffy. His eyelashes are black peaks formed by old tears; tears Gerard hadn’t been there to wipe away. “Too cold?” he asks.

“Nah,” Frank responds. “S’nice.”

Frank turns his attention back towards his toes. Gerard brushes the shower curtain aside as he steps back out of the tub, and Frank scooches over, making more space for him on the bathroom floor. Gerard sits down, placing a careful hand over Frank’s.

“Okay?” He asks.

“Don’t fucking baby me,” Frank spits. 

Gerard smirks as Frank blushes and turns his hand up anyway, holding his. The bathmat underneath their hands is soft and fuzzy, dry in contrast to the slickness from the moisturizer. Their palms make a squelching sound when Gerard squeezes Frank’s hand, and Frank laughs. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Gerard says.

“Just lots of stressors lately,” Frank breathes, scratching at the fold of his nose. “Work sucks. Brian’s on my ass.”

“He always is,” Gerard kisses the tips of Frank’s fingers, smiling at the small smirk it elicits from him. His fingertips aren’t fucked up this time, which means he’ll be able to play guitar sooner. That’ll make him happy, Gerard thinks. “Any triggers?” Gerard wants to know, pressing his mouth to Frank’s chapped knuckles. The broken skin tastes like cocoa butter, copper, and isopropyl. Gerard’s lips tingle at the sharp flavor, but he kisses each knuckle anyway, because it’s making Frank smile. 

Frank blushes. “I mean,” he looks at the glistening tiles, stark white hand towels, and spotless grout. “I cleaned the whole fucking place, didn’t I?” He laughs.

“You did, you did,” Gerard chuckles, lowering his and Frank’s hands back onto the bathmat. 

“God,” Frank runs his free palm down his face and groans. “At least my insanity can be useful sometimes, hey?” 

Frank drops his hand into his lap and looks at Gerard, the gaze from his bloodshot eyes sending a thousand daggers into Gerard’s heart. He knows Frank needs to joke about this, he knows he needs to make it funny ( _otherwise it’d be fucking unbearable,_ Frank had said in the past) but Gerard’s not sure it helps. It hasn’t helped yet, and it hadn’t helped Gerard when he was the one struggling.

“It is nice to come back to a clean apartment,” Gerard sighs, tucking Frank’s dry hair behind his ear, “but it’s not nice to come home and find the love of my life suffering.”

Frank pouts. “I wanted to call you,” he says, “but I didn’t want to interrupt the conference thing —”

“Please, fucking interrupt the conference next time,” Gerard cuts in.

“Okay,” Frank says, smiling. He bites his lip, and keeps his eyes down. “But it was mostly that I didn’t think the phone was clean enough to pick up.”

Gerard sighs, frowning at Frank. “Baby.”

Frank’s tone is calm as he explains his reasoning. “‘Cuz I’d wipe it down, but then I’d be like, ‘oh, but the fucking wipes container is dirty’, like, poisoned from the inside because of the factory it came from or whatever,” he says, a little laugh in his voice, “so like, how do I clean the shit when the shit I’m trying to clean it with is fucking dirty, y’know?”

“I know,” Gerard sympathizes, the words feeling heavy in his mouth. “I should’ve come home when you didn’t answer,” he looks at Frank. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around.”

“I don’t think you could have done anything if you were, babe,” Frank says. He lifts his gaze towards the open door, and Gerard follows his eyes, looking out into their tidy apartment. Frank explained that the carpets had been vacuumed _(three times)_ , the counters have been wiped down _(three times)_ , the throw blankets on the couch had been folded ( _three times over_ ; Frank’s got a thing for threes) and the cushions beneath them had been sprayed down with rubbing alcohol and vinegar. Gerard didn’t say anything about how terrible that was for the fabric, how that would deteriorate the fibers — he knows Frank knows. 

“It’s like a stupid little bug in my brain I can’t get rid of,” Frank says. “The worst part is like, it’s a fucking cycle. Like, once I snap out of it, out of the fucking fugue, I know it’s ridiculous.”

Even though Gerard’s heard this before, he thinks it might be important for Frank to reiterate it. He exhales, making room in his head and chest for Frank’s words.

“I think I even know it’s ridiculous as I’m doing it,” Frank goes on. “Like, I’m fucking aware that it’s ‘fixative’ and ‘maladaptive behavior’ or whatever the fuck Dr. Rickly says. That’s why it sucks so much, because I have enough self awareness to be embarrassed by it.”

He turns back to Gerard, and his face is calm. Gerard waits.

“And I _am_ embarrassed, Gee.” Frank tells him, looking him right in the eyes. “Like, I’m fucking crazy. I’m fucking insane.”

Those words sting, and Gerard pauses to breathe. “I understand how you feel." He says, trying to follow the shake of Frank’s irises as they search his own, “but you’re not crazy, baby. You’re stressed out, and this is how you deal with it.”

Frank’s forehead tenses. He holds up his sore and glossy hands, flakes of dead skin trapped between dermis and lotion like breadcrumbs stuck in a honey pot. “Look at my fucking hands, babe,” he says. “Normal people don’t do this when they get stressed out.”

“Nobody is fucking normal, Frank,” Gerard snaps. 

Frank recoils a little, like Gerard’s fending him off with burning flame. Frank’s eyes narrow, and now Gerard feels like he’s the one being burned.

Gerard sighs. “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head at the floor. “I didn’t mean to get mean. I’m just trying to say that ‘crazy’ doesn’t exist, and ‘normal’ doesn’t, either. It’s just who we are, and how we deal with the shit around us.” 

“If ‘crazy’ doesn’t exist, then why are you mad at me for saying it about myself?” Frank jabs.

“Because I don’t think you see it the way I do, honey,” Gerard points out. “I think you _do_ think crazy exists, and I think you think it’s bad. I think you’re using the word to talk against yourself.”

Frank’s face grows sour. “I’m just stating the fucking facts, Gee. It’s objectively true.”

Gerard feels his A.A scars tingling. He understands that intellectualization is just a coping mechanism, but still, it frustrates the fuck out of him. He takes a deep breath. 

“Didn’t you say ‘it’s a cycle’, though?” Gerard asks, stroking the top of Frank’s hand; it calms him as much as it calms Frank. The skin is less rough now too, though Frank’s knuckles are still ruined. He’ll probably have to wear gloves to bed, Gerard thinks. He looks up at Frank, keeping his voice soft. “Isn’t shame and embarrassment part of that cycle?”

“Maybe,” Frank mumbles, pouting his lip.

“Self-judgement only leads to more stress,” Gerard says. “And you don’t need more stress, honey.”

“Damn,” Frank giggles, a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I should ask you to move out then, huh?”

“Shut up,” Gerard groans, grinning at Frank’s stupid crinkly-eyed smile. Right now, he can see the softness in Frank. It’s there in his shining irises, his pink cheeks, his crooked teeth, and the scars where his piercings used to be. It’s what made Gerard fall in love in the first place, and it’s also the thing that makes Frank so sensitive, so susceptible to the bullshit the world throws at him. It fucking sucks, and Gerard knows that it’s not easy to deal with. He just wishes Frank wasn’t so hard on himself.

“I just hate it when you talk about yourself like this, Frank. Like, I fucking love you,” Gerard pauses as he notices Frank fight back a smile. “So when you say mean shit about yourself,” he says softer, holding Frank’s hand and minding the knuckles, “it’s like you’re talking shit about my best friend, and that makes me wanna fight.”

“I thought Mikey was your best friend,” Frank mumbles, looking down at their hands.

“He is. But he’s also my brother, and he’s a shithead,” Gerard answers, and smiles when Frank giggles. “Look, baby. Talking about yourself like this isn’t helpful. You can’t hate yourself into someone you can love.”

A pathetic whine comes out of Frank as he sinks against the tub and lets his body go limp. “I hate when you go all A.A on me,” Frank moans, craning his neck back over the lip of the tub. His voice floats to the ceiling tiles. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, okay? I’m tired.”

“Frank,” Gerard begs. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, anyway,” Frank says. “I had a fucking episode while you were gone, I cleaned the whole place, I washed my hands until they fell apart, and I cried a fuckton — but you’re back now, and all I wanna do is eat food, get stoned, and watch a shitty movie with you. I’m really tired, babe.” 

Frank rubs the lotion into his hands and wrists, and Gerard tries to let his words settle in. He understands that Frank is exhausted, that his body is probably aching and his mind is spent, but he hates it when he deflects like this. He’s itching to cut through the bullshit.

“But we could still fuck later. That’d be sweet,” Frank smirks.

Gerard laughs, feeling the itching sensation go to his cheeks. “I fucking hate you, Frank.”

“No. You love me,” Frank teases. “You said so before. _Love of my life._ ” 

“It’s true,” Gerard sighs, gazing at him. He speaks his words softly, like a kiss to the air. “You are.”

“So,” Frank says, cheeks going pink as he looks down at his toes, “can we please do all of that nice stuff instead of whatever this is?” 

Gerard bites his lip, fighting with himself. 

He knows that the dust is still settling and now probably isn’t the time, but fuck, he wants to talk about this. He wants to rip Frank from “the cycle” and make him see that he’s no more fucked up than anyone else is; that he’s just another person with their own fantastic, unhealthy way of dealing with stress and anxiety. He wants to tell Frank that he’s not any special brand of damaged, nor is he beyond help — but right now, Frank’s eyes are pleading. His lips are turned downwards, his brows are turned up, his cheeks are rosy and his hair is a mess and he looks like the saddest puppy in the world and Gerard’s heart is breaking in half.

His leg muscles ache as he stands up. “Chinese or Indian?” He asks, smirking as Frank’s face lights up.

“Indian!” Frank exclaims, clambering up from the floor. He’s all smiles as he finds himself in the mirror and tries to pat his hair down, grimacing when the lotion makes the long black strands stick to his hand. “I want malai kofta and an order of veggie pakora,” he says as he struggles with his hair, “and don’t forget the fucking mango chutney this time.”

“I won’t forget,” Gerard says as he steps towards Frank. 

Frank puts his hands on either side of the sink and lets Gerard come up behind him. Gerard smooths his hair down for him, massaging his scalp along the way. After Frank’s eyes shut and his face melts into a loose smile, Gerard tucks the longer pieces behind Frank’s ears and smiles at him in the mirror. 

“Alright, baby,” Gerard says, kissing Frank’s shoulder. “I love you. So much.” 

“I love you too,” Frank smiles back. 

Gerard kisses Frank’s shoulder once more before heading out into the hall. He’s halfway to the kitchen when he hears the bathroom sink turn on, and he stops dead in his tracks, feeling panic crawl across his skin.

“I’m just brushing my teeth!” Frank shouts, his voice garbled by the bristles he’s probably got shoved between his jaws, “no hand-washing over here! I promise!”

Gerard hears Frank gargle and spit. The panic flushes out of him and makes way for shame. It burrows deep into his skin and eats at him, gnaws from the inside out until there’s an ozone layer between himself and the air; a shell between his body and the earth. He walks down the hall like he’s trying to leave the shell behind. Like it’s not part of him.

“Alright, baby,” Gerard says to himself. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i haven't published anything in a long time, and it's great to be back. i have a chaptered fic in the works, and hope to publish it soon. (edit: first chapter is now out!)  
> this fic was based on my (ongoing) experience with anxiety and OCD symptoms. if you're dealing with something similar, i'm right there with you. be kind to yourself. stay blessed. gnight.  
> 


End file.
